


stray, you're just like me

by johnnlaurenss



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, pining idiots and lots of cute animals!!, plus lots of feuilly appreciation as per usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-08 02:00:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13448130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnnlaurenss/pseuds/johnnlaurenss
Summary: Feuilly doesn’t know his name, just knows that he comes in every Monday and Thursday like clockwork to sit with the animals and harass Feuilly and, most recently, bring Feuilly coffee. He’s ridiculously hot and so sweet to the animals and he’s kind of an asshole to Feuilly but he always does it with this stupid charming grin on his face—Yeah, there’s definitely a person.*In which Feuilly's job introduces him to cute volunteers, people fall in love too easily with the rescues, and he adopts another stray into his life.





	stray, you're just like me

**Author's Note:**

> *cracks knuckles* if no one else will provide bromos content, I shall do it myself.

Feuilly works at an animal shelter.

 

Okay, that’s a broad statement, because Feuilly _works_ everywhere, but the animal shelter is probably his favorite. He tells himself he loves it so much because he’s rescuing animals, he gets to help them be healthy again, and who wouldn’t love spending hour after hour playing with the mischievous cats and dogs that are brought in? He loves his job because he loves animals, and there’s absolutely no other reason.

 

“Bullshit,” Enjolras says when Feuilly tells him exactly that. “You smile like a fool every day before you leave and you’ve started dressing sharper and doing your hair. There’s a _person_ and I demand to know everything.”

 

“There’s no person,” Feuilly argues.

 

“There’s definitely a person,” says Courfeyrac conspiringly from where he lounges on the couch. Feuilly isn’t even sure how either of them got into his apartment.

 

“I hate you all,” he mutters under his breath, with no real heat. It’s not an admission, but it’s not a denial either. Courfeyrac is right, after all, there definitely is a person.

 

Feuilly doesn’t know his name, just knows that he comes in every Monday and Thursday like clockwork to sit with the animals and harass Feuilly and, most recently, bring Feuilly coffee. He’s ridiculously hot and so sweet to the animals and he’s kind of an asshole to Feuilly but he always does it with this stupid charming grin on his face—

 

Yeah, there’s definitely a person.

 

It’s Tuesday, which means he’d just gotten off work at the cafe and had headed home to change into anything that wasn’t an apron and khakis when he’d been ambushed by Courfeyrac and Enjolras in his apartment. They brought him cookies, but Feuilly suspects the cookies are just their alibi.

 

“We brought you cookies and this is how you reward us?” cries Courfeyrac indignantly. At this, Feuilly is _certain_ the cookies are just their alibi. Courfeyrac is pouting at him, and Feuilly would feel bad if he wasn’t so used to Courfeyrac’s dramatics.

 

He’s grabbing his coat because he really has to go if he’s expected to make it to his shift on time, but as he starts for the door both Enjolras and Courfeyrac look at him like he kicked their cat. He hates his friends, honestly, the assholes, but mostly he hates how easily he succumbs to them when they want something from him.

 

Feuilly sighs.

 

“There _is_ someone!” Enjolras cries victoriously.Courfeyrac lights up, but Feuilly lifts his hand in a desperate attempt to stop them before they really make him late.

 

“If there was someone, I’d tell you, you know that,” Feuilly says honestly. He tells his friends everything, so he means it wholeheartedly. There’s someone, he won’t lie, but someone isn’t _someone_ yet. He hesitates as he swings open the door, then adds, “When I know his name, so will you.”

 

He closes the door just as Enjolras starts spluttering indignantly and Courfeyrac starts whistling and shouting. He grins to himself as the door clicks locked—as much as he teases them, he really does love his friends.

 

The animal shelter is across the street from his apartment. The majority of his jobs are in walking distance from where he lives, more outof convenience than anything else. It works out in his favor, especially when he picks up shifts in between shifts he’s already scheduled and has to sprint from place to place. His coworkers don’t understand why he works so often, laughing at him and shaking their heads. His friends get it, at least; a bit more, but concern themselves too much with his health and don’t understand why he doesn’t take a day off.

 

He’s got his reasons. And that’s all he really needs, he thinks.

 

The shelter is quiet, which isn’t rare for a Tuesday afternoon. When he walks in, his coworker Jeanne smiles at him. He salutes her, and is in the middle of removing his coat and placing it on the hook when she says, “You’re grooming today,” and promptly ruins his entire life.

 

She laughs at his crestfallen face. “But it’s Tuesday,” he protests, trying not to sound like a petulant child. He doesn’t succeed, obviously, because she just laughs at him some more.

 

“And Beaumont called out sick, so you’ve been assigned by the boss to groom,” she singsongs. She looks far too amused by his distress. Feuilly’s about to sigh and resign himself to an exceptional boring day now that he doesn’t get to stare unabashedly at a hot volunteer playing with animals when Jeanne finally takes sympathy on him. “Ugh, god, you’re so lovestruck it’s gross. I’ll switch you, _today only,_ if you promise not to charge me for my coffee the next time I come into the cafe.”

 

Feuilly could kiss her, the thinks, he honestly could, if he wasn’t kind of halfway in love with this asshole who brings him coffee twice a week. She pats his cheek as he gushes his thanks while she stands up from the desk, and disappears to the back whistling a tune. Which leaves just him upfront.

 

Desk work isn’t his favorite spot to be put in, but he’s grateful for it as he sinks into the chair and lets out a sigh so long and loud it seems to be carrying the weight of the world. There’s data entry to be done, and social media to post on, and pictures of the new rescues to take, but for a moment Feuilly just sits in the chair and waits.

 

It’s like clockwork—at 4:15, a bell chimes to signal someone’s arrival, and a bite of cold air sweeps through the lobby before the door is securely shut. He’s swearing as he enters, closing the door quickly and letting out a slew of profanities as he shivers despite the fact he’s wearing a coat. Then he turns, catches sight of Feuilly, and grins.

 

“My favorite vet,” the guy says. His hair, usually dark and worn down, has been dyed recently and is piled atop his head. He looks as gorgeous as ever, if not more, as his face is flushed from the cold outside. In his hands are two thermoses.

 

Feuilly makes grabbing motions at the coffee immediately.

 

“I’m not a vet,” he says out of habit, as the guy laughs and hands him one of the thermoses. “Your hair.”

 

“Glad you have your priorities straight,” he’s laughing. His hands linger in the air even as Feuilly pulls away and brings the thermos to his mouth. “Yes, my hair.”

 

“It’s blue,” Feuilly says, and he sounds so awestruck and stupid that he immediately blushes and tries to take a large sip of his drink to hide it. The guy just smiled broadly at him.

 

“It is,” he agrees. There’s a story, there, on the tip of his tongue, and Feuilly is _dying_ to here it or maybe to kiss it away. But then the guy glances away from him, back towards the kennels, and Feuilly remembers that he has a job and the guy is here for reasons other than being his coffee lackey and eye candy. “Any new ones?”

 

Feuilly shrugs, still holding the thermos in one hand but grabbing the keys from off the desk and stepping out in front of the guy to lead him to the back. “A new Siamese, a German Shepherd, two Shorthairs, we think siblings, and a Retriever mix.”

 

The guy makes a pleased him from behind Feuilly, and it makes him smirk. “Once you’re done meeting the new recruits, I could use some help taking pictures of them and uploading them to get people interested in adopting them.”

 

“Yeah sure, Feuilly, whatever you need,” the guy agrees instantly. Feuilly smiles to himself before stopping dead in his tracks. Hot Volunteer nearly runs him down before he stutters to a stop. “Whoa, sorry.”

 

“How’d you know my name?”

 

The guy blanches. Feuilly watches as he scuffs his foot along the floor, pointedly looking anywhere but Feuilly’s face, before he finally mutters, “I asked the other one for it.”

 

“Jeanne?” Feuilly asks, shocked. “Oh my god, she’s _meddling_. Wait, why didn’t you just _ask me_ for my name?”

 

“Why haven’t you asked me for mine?” Hot Volunteer counters. And, okay he has a point, because honestly referring to him as Hot Volunteer can’t have been his permanent plan. The guy smiles, realizing he’s caught Feuilly, but extends his hand before Feuilly can stammer out some lame excuse. “I’m Bahorel.”

 

Bahorel’s hand is big and warm and calloused and probably fits perfectly with Feuilly’s. It’s a dangerous train of thought but it won’t leave him _alone_. “Nice to officially meet you, Bahorel,” Feuilly says. His hand is so _warm_.

 

So is his smile, Feuilly thinks desperately, when Bahorel grins happily back at him.

 

Someone coughs from behind them.

 

Feuilly startles so bad he drops Bahorel’s hand and whirls around, completely embarrassing himself in front of Hot Volunteer Named Bahorel. Jeanne is smirking at the both of them, holding the rescued Shorthairs in her arms. “Hey, guys,” she says. She sounds overly amused, like she knows something they don’t know. “Just finished bathing the kittens. They were a pretty straightforward groom, so they’re ready to go, if you are?”

 

Immediately, Bahorel makes a happy noise and steps forward, hands already extended to to take the kittens. He presses his thermos into Feuilly’s hands without saying anything, making Feuilly splutter indignantly but accept it and shift it so he can hold both their coffees. “Oh, they’re beautiful,” he whines, and the kittens fit perfectly in each of his hands. “They’re babies. Look how cute they are! How could anyone not love them? Ooh, come on, you darlings, my friend Feuilly and I are going to help find you the bestest home imaginable, yes we are.”

 

One of the kittens lunges at Bahorel’s thumb as she shifts around in his arms, completely unaware of Bahorel’s voice. Feuilly is enraptured, however, and is probably staring at him like an idiot with a big dumb crush. Bahorel just laughs delightedly and waves his fingers around as best he can while holding two kittens, so that they continue to nip playfully at his fingers.

 

“Fuck,” Feuilly whispers, knowing he is truly and utterly screwed now that he knows Bahorel’s name.

 

“What was that?” Jeanne asks, sounding innocent without sounding innocent at all.

 

“Let’s go,” sighs Feuilly. He’s half certain his heart will explode if he keeps standing there staring at Bahorel being perfect with animals, as always.

 

 

 

 

Creating the ads for the animals is probably one of the most fun jobs to do for Feuilly. Jeanne brings him the animals as she’s done grooming them and making sure they’re healthy, and Feuilly takes them from her and shoos her away before she can start asking questions. Since Bahorel is just a volunteer, he sits on the floor and holds a multitude of animals in his lap, giving them all his attention and—unfortunately, for Feuilly’s sanity—naming them ridiculous names.

 

Feuilly takes pictures of the Shorthairs first, much to Bahorel’s dismay as he takes them away, and in between pictures gives them toys to keep them occupied and strokes the tops of their heads before giving them treats.

 

“Why are you taking pictures of them individually?” Bahorel asks. Feuilly glances over his shoulder.

 

“Well, we don’t know if they actually are siblings, and even if we did, we have to post rescues separately,” Feuilly explains. He’s gotten distracted while talking, so one of the kittens head-butts his hand and mews until he finishes giving her the treat.

 

“But shouldn’t they stay together?” Bahorel presses. He sounds increasingly distressed. “I mean, even if they aren’t siblings, they were still found together, wouldn’t they be better off together?”

 

Feuilly softens. His face is sad as he looks at Bahorel. “It’s likely they won’t be adopted together,” he says gently. “They rarely are.”

 

It’s like the concept is a foreign language to Bahorel, because his face goes crestfallen and alarmed in a matter of seconds. “Oh,” he mutters, and Feuilly feels an overwhelming urge to hug Bahorel until his voice doesn’t feel sad anymore. It’s probably his big dumb crush talking though, so he closes his eyes and forces himself to focus back on the task at hand. He picks up the Shorthairs, gently tugging their claws out of the carpet they’ve latched themselves to, and presses them back into Bahorel’s hands.

 

“Let’s do the Siamese next, yeah?” he says softly, and Bahorel smiles at him as he wrestles with the kittens in his hands.

 

The Shorthairs were babies, only a few weeks old at most, but the Siamese is at least two years old, the Retriever mix is between six months and one year, and the German Shepherd is around three to five years. Bahorel names them all, the German Shepherd taking an immediate liking to him while the Siamese putters around after the kittens and worries endlessly about them. The retriever mix, Feuilly keeps his hands on, and if someone asked him he wouldn’t be able to explain why.

 

A lot of animals come through their shelter, all of them in different states of disarray. They are rescues, after all, which means that their previous situations are never ideal. It’s part of the reason Feuilly first decided to get a job at the shelter; he had a habit before of taking in strays—it’s how he adopted all his friends—so he jumped at the chance to do it for real. He hadn’t counted on how hard it would be to see some of the animals come in sometimes.

 

The Shorthairs were found in a box next to a dumpster, most likely dropped because the owner had no idea what to do with newborn kittens. Their heart rates were abnormal and their temperature too low, but it was straightforward to nurse them back to health. The German Shepherd was a stray picked up outside the cemetery, a little malnourished but otherwise unscathed. The Siamese cat was brought in by a coffee shop owner who claimed to have found the cat constantly wandering through her shop—(“ _I’d take her in, I would, but my girlfriend is terribly allergic and our landlord doesn’t allow pets. Make sure she gets a good home, will you_?”)—and brought her here. But the retriever mix—

 

She’s still just a puppy, but the way she skits around Feuilly and whines and looks frightened when people come near her is enough to say she’s lived a very long life in a very poor situation. Eventually she warms up to Feuilly, enough to let him pet her and offer her treats while he tries to take her picture. Bahorel sits with all the other animals, laughing as the German Shepherd noisily licks him and shifting his arms so that the kittens can keep crawling over them. Feuilly sits down across from him once he’s done, placing the retriever mix back on the ground and letting her sniff around until eventually she comes to rest next to him.

 

“So you’ve named them all, let me hear them,” Feuilly says. Bahorel smiles.

 

He carefully hands Feuilly one of the kittens, the male one who instantly settles in Feuilly’s hand and promptly falls asleep.

 

“The kittens are Luke and Leia,” Bahorel says. Feuilly glances at him. “Don’t give me that look, Star Wars is the shit and you can’t even deny it, and I know you said they might not be siblings but they _are_ , I can tell, and it fits because nobody knew if Leia and Luke were at first, right, so it fits. I think we should call the Siamese Helen—look at that fur, at her face, people would definitely start a war over her. This rambunctious dude should be called Aegis or something equally badass, because he needs a badass superhero name. And for her—”

 

“Rosa,” Feuilly says resolutely. “This is Rosa.”

 

Bahorel smiles at him, as bright and vibrant as his hair. And Feuilly can’t help but smile back.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Did you _find out his name_?!”

 

“Oh my god, Courfeyrac, I just got home, why are you still in my apartment?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Feuilly doesn’t expect anything to change.

 

Nothing really should, considering the only thing that _has_ changed is that he learned Bahorel’s name. Feuilly still goes to work every hour he can, he still drinks an ungodly amount of coffee, he still refreshes Facebook constantly to see if anyone has expressed interest in the animals at the shelter.

 

Enjolras still teases him mercilessly about his big dumb crush, and Courfeyrac still begs tirelessly for information about his big dumb crush. The rest of his friends roll their eyes at their antics, but still find it within themselves to approach Feuilly and find a way to tease him, too.

 

He’s working at the cafe one day and his only table is literally just all of his friends, so he’s enjoying the relatively easy day and brewing a fresh pot of coffee when the doorbell chimes and Feuilly realizes Bahorel has stepped into his cafe. He blinks stupidly.

 

Bahorel looks as surprised as Feuilly feels. “What are you doing here?” he asks, sounding shocked. It’s only been four days since Feuilly saw him last, but he looks worse for wear. His hair has faded a bit, thrown into another hasty bun, and he’s wearing a hoodie and actual honest-to-god leggings. Feuilly thinks he might be sick, and immediately wants to force feed him their soup until he feels better. It’s an odd impulse, definitely one of Feuilly’s weirder dreams of Bahorel, but he still wants to make sure the man is okay.

 

“I work here?” says Feuilly. He glances down at his apron like he’s expecting it to not be here. “Last time I checked.”

 

Turns out he can still be an asshole—but Bahorel smiles slightly.

 

“I thought you worked at the shelter.”

 

Feuilly winces. Everyone goes running for the hills when they find out he’s a workaholic who never takes a break. “Um, I have four jobs.”

 

Bahorel’s eyes widen. “Jesus,” he mutters under his breath. He collapses at the counter, across from Feuilly. “I knew you were hardworking, but I guess I didn’t think hardworking meant hardly-not-working.”

 

Feuilly’s face pinches. “We can’t all afford Berluti Rapiece off of one salary,” he snaps.

 

Bahorel looks hurt.

 

“I’ll be right back,” sighs Feuilly, trying not to be too short with him. He knows Bahorel didn’t mean it to be rude—people hardly ever do—but he works hard for a _reason_ and he hates it when people make snap decisions about him based on that. He takes the fresh coffee over to the table of his friends, all of whom are peering at him curiously. He snarls at them, “ _What_?”

 

Courfeyrac recoils and looks down at his croissant instantly, but Enjolras and Combeferre just continue looking at him. Jehan and Cosette, however, have both moved on to staring unabashedly at Bahorel’s back. “That was rude,” Cosette scolds him, all while not taking her gaze away from the man at the counter. Feuilly flinches.

 

“Sorry, ‘Sette,” he mutters. He refills their coffees and shifts his feet. He adds, “Sorry, all of you. It’s been a long day, apparently.”

 

Jehan hums. “Sure,” they agree, sounding like they don’t believe Feuilly at all.

 

“Who is that?” Enjolras asks.

 

Feuilly glances back, just for a second, then lowers his voice as he says, “That’s Bahorel.”

 

He regrets it instantly, as all of his friends start to talk over each other— _loudly—_ as they try to ascertain more information. Feuilly sighs again, letting them all talk at him without any regard to the fact that they’re all talking at the same time. Eventually, he shakes his head at them and goes back to the counter, figuring even if Bahorel did piss him off a little bit that he still deserves to be served.

 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Bahorel says the second Feuilly reenters his line of sight. Feuilly’s steps falter. “I swear to god. I meant, like. I don’t know, dude, you make me so damn nervous, and you work ten times harder than I do and I didn’t even know the extent of it, but you’re legitimately the most intriguing person I know and you have _four jobs_ and I barely know how to talk to you because you’re probably, like, a thousand times cooler than me. I’m—anyway, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. Hardworking is a good thing, an awesome thing, and you surprised me at all.”

 

All Feuilly can do is blink.

 

Bahorel groans. “And I’m just this big dope of a guy who probably just scared you off because I don’t know when to shut the fuck up. I’m exceptionally horrible at this, it seems.”

 

Feuilly finds his words. “What,” he says, then mentally bangs his head on the counter.

 

“Listen, I really don’t want to, but I’ve got to go soon, and my friend is meeting me here and I’m supposed to have coffees ready,” mutters Bahorel. He won’t look at Feuilly anymore which is _wrong_ because Feuilly’s finally coming back to reality. “Can we just forget about the fact that I’m a bumbling idiot and can I order two coffees to go from you? I’ll tip you exceptionally well to make up for the fact that I was rude earlier.”

 

Feuilly doesn’t trust himself not to say something stupid, like _you’re not a bumbling idiot_ or _please kiss me right now oh my god_ , so he just shuts his mouth and turns slightly to grab Bahorel his two coffees to go. The door jingles again, and Bahorel greets whoever it is so loudly that Feuilly can’t help but glance up. He’s dressed similarly to Bahorel, in leggings and shorts and a hoodie, with boxing gloves thrown over his shoulder, and he grins at Bahorel and fist bumps him while they talk. Feuilly’s jolted back into reality _again_ , and takes advantage of Bahorel’s distraction.

 

When he’s finished with the cups, he hands them carefully to Bahorel and tries his best to look natural as he smiles. “On the house,” he says, but Bahorel puts money down on the counter anyway and pointedly looks away when Feuilly splutters and tries to give it back.

 

“We have to get to the gym, we’ve got a match, I’m sorry,” Bahorel calls as they head towards the door, not sounding sorry at all. Feuilly watches as he goes, eyes following him through the window as he goes to take a sip of his coffee and his friend stops him, pointing at the cup. Bahorel looks at it, grins softly to himself, and turns and catches Feuilly’s gaze through the window. His smile says it all, and Feuilly hopes to god his smile back is just as genuine.

 

“My god, you’re fucked,” comments Courfeyrac from where they’re all still perched at the window. Feuilly’s eyes snap to him, but Courfeyrac just keeps smiling at him from ear to ear. “Don’t worry, Enj is practically gone on the guy he was with, so at least you’re in good company.”

 

“I am _not_ —” Enjolras stammers.

 

“Yes, you are,” says everyone in unison. Feuilly laughs with them and shakes his head fondly. Of all the strays he’s found in his life, his friends are probably his favorite.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**From: Unknown**

[20:45] will u b @ the shelter tmrw

[20:45] crhist fuck this is bahorel btw

[20:46] frm the shelter n today frm the cafe

 

**To: Unknown**

[21:01] tomorrow’s tuesday

 

**From: Unknown**

[21:06] :)

[21:06] i’ll bring coffee

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Where’s my two favorite kittens?” Bahorel demands as he sweeps into the shelter. He seems to have taken a liking to wearing his hair up, but noticeably absent is his usual ensemble of business casual clothes. He’s wearing jeans again, wonderful jeans that do amazing things for his ass, and a sweater with pushed up sleeves that make Feuilly realize he has _tattoos._ He’s also wearing scuffed up sneakers.

 

Feuilly tries hard not to think back to his short comment with Bahorel about the clothes he wears, and fails. He can’t help the overwhelming idea that Bahorel’s appearance today is _because_ of his comment. He swallows.

 

Bahorel hands him a thermos of coffee; he hasn’t stopped smiling since he walked in.

 

Feuilly doesn’t know how to tell him that Luke got adopted yesterday.

 

He picks the keys up again, staying pointedly silent as he starts to head to the back with Bahorel on his toes. Bahorel mistakes his silence as anger. “Hey, I really am sorry about yesterday,” he says softly. “If you’re still mad at me, then I get it, but I do hope you know I’m sorry.”

 

Feuilly _hates_ that Bahorel thinks he’s still upset, so when he stops and turns around he reaches forward and grasps Bahorel’s hand in his. “Shut the fuck up,” he says earnestly. He squeezes Bahorel’s hand. “I’m not mad at you, I wasn’t even really mad to begin with, I’m just an idiot and I get defensive too easily. You’re good, we’re good. I didn’t give you my number for nothing.”

 

Bahorel grins wolfishly at him. “Hell yeah, I fucking knew it,” he says happily, and Feuilly rolls his eyes but it’s fond.

 

He tries not to feel too guilty as he takes Bahorel back to the kennels.

 

Leia is with Helen, sitting contently against the older cat’s side while Helen watches the room with her skeptical eyes. Bahorel coos the second he sees the both of them, rubbing under Helen’s chin briefly before scooping Leia up into his hands again. “My lovely ladies,” he greets, nuzzling his nose against Leia’s head. She swats at his head and licks his nose. “Alright, kiddo, where’s that cute brother of yours? Feu, which bed is his?”

 

Feuilly bites his lip. He takes too long to reply; Bahorel looks up slowly, and the look on his face is already hurting Feuilly’s heart. He takes a hesitant step further into the room, away from the doorway he’d been leaning against. “Luke was adopted yesterday, Bahorel,” he says, as carefully as he can. Bahorel’s face dropped.

 

“They didn’t take Leia?” he whispers. His voice is confused, and even more hurt. He glances down at the kitten in question, looking exceptionally dumbfounded at the idea that someone wouldn’t take her, too.

 

“They didn’t take Leia,” Feuilly confirms.

 

“But _why_? They were siblings, their names were—why wouldn’t they take her too, why would they _separate_ them?”

 

Feuilly puts his hand on Bahorel’s shoulder. He’s not sure what else he can to at the moment. “I told you, Bahorel, they weren’t likely to get adopted together. This happens more often than we’d like. Luke’s in a new home now, Leia will get adopted too, they’ll be okay.”

 

Bahorel looks up at him. He’s a lot taller than Feuilly, but where he sits on the ground Feuilly’s got the advantage of height. Bahorel looks lovely like this, even with his sad eyes, peering up at him and looking confused and sad and breathtaking. It would be easy to move his hand, to change grasping his shoulder to holding his face; it would be easy to bend down and press his lips against Bahorel’s until he stopped frowning. It would be so easy to do so many things, and he _wants_ to, wants to know how Bahorel’s stubble feels underneath his finger, wants to trace the curve of his nose and become familiar with the taste of his smile.

 

He feels a warm weight attach itself to his shirt, and when he glances down he realizes Leia has padded away from Bahorel and gotten her claws tangled in Feuilly’s shirt. He laughs softly to himself, at the kitten ruining the moment or saving him from a monumental mistake, and takes his hand off of Bahorel’s shoulder to reach down and peel her away from his shirt. She shifts restlessly in his hands as he lifts her up, looking at her very seriously. “She’s a troublemaker, but she’s cute, so someone will take her,” Feuilly says. She nips playfully at his nose.

 

Feuilly takes a step back, still holding her, and Bahorel’s hands extend out after them. “Feuilly,” he starts, but Feuilly is making rapid work of placing Leia down on a bed and getting out the food for the cats’ dinner. “ _Feuilly_.”

 

He finally looks up.

 

Bahorel has stood up, a few steps behind him, looking like he’s torn between closing the distance between him or sprinting for the door. Feuilly smiles as gently as he can. Whatever moment they just shared, it’s not going to go any further, he knows that. He has to let Bahorel know it’s okay, that he gets it.

 

“Do you want to help me feed them?” he asks, looking back down at Leia as she wanders towards the edge of the counter. He drags her back to the middle, just for her to mew at him and make her way back.

 

Bahorel takes a minute to reply. “Yeah,” he says finally. “Yeah, I’ll help you.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

And so it continues like that, for a while at least.

 

They share moments, occasionally, but they’re all the same and it doesn’t go anywhere else.

 

Just like Feuilly’d expected.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Enjolras invites him over for dinner, and Feuilly thinks it’s a nice gesture up until the moment they’re halfway through their meal and Enjolras ambushes him with his favorite topic of debate as of recently.

 

“I don’t understand why you don’t just _ask_ him,” Enjolras argues. It’s the same argument he and Feuilly have had for weeks, now, always circling back to this and always ending with Feuilly huffing angrily and storming off to his room.

 

Feuilly thinks that should be clue enough to why he doesn’t just _talk_ to Bahorel. Obviously, he’s not very good at handling having _feelings_.

 

“Because I literally cannot,” Feuilly says, for the thousandth time. He pokes his fork at Enjolras’s general direction. “You know, it’s really rude of you to invite me over to your apartment with the promise of homemade food just to ambush me.”

 

Enjolras makes an affronted noise. “This isn’t an _ambush_ , it’s a recommendation. As your friend and biggest fan, I am a big supporter of your happiness. And you’ve spent weeks moping around because you won’t let yourself be happy with this guy that you obviously really like. You need to learn how to let yourself have good things, too, Feu.”

 

“Fuck you, this _is_ an ambush, and I’m your biggest fan too, asshole,” Feuilly mumbles around a mouthful of food. “It’s not that I won’t. It’s not a matter of _deserving_ it, it’s a matter of saving us both the heartbreak when inevitably he realizes I’m not worth the time since I have no free time to speak of. I work a thousand hours a week, I’m a useless conversationalist because I’m tired literally constantly, I consume more coffee than water, and for what? Why do I work so often? For a pipe dream that’s going to take me forever to achieve.”

 

Enjolras frowns. He puts his fork down and in an instant has stood up just to crouch down next to Feuilly. His hand presses against Feuilly’s wrist. “I don’t ever want to hear such demeaning things about my friend again,” says Enjolras fiercely. “Feuilly, you’re an incredible guy. Anyone would be lucky to get to know you, and those who really care won’t mind finding time in between your schedule. You aren’t chasing a pipe dream, you’re paving your own future, and you’re so much closer than you’ll let yourself realize. If you’re holding yourself back because you think he’s not going to find you charming and amazing like the rest of us do, then you’re deluding yourself.”

 

Feuilly thinks he may start to cry. Enjolras lets go of his wrist to wrap his arm around Feuilly’s shoulders and to hold him close.

 

“Thanks,” Feuilly mutters against the collar of Enjolras’s shirt. He tightens his grip. “Thank you.”

 

When Enjolras finally lets him go after dropping a kiss to the top of Feuilly’s hair. They continue eating for a while, talking about nothing in particular while Feuilly enjoys a rare night off. Enjolras is the best at understanding when Feuilly just wants to have a relaxing night in, as he shuts down any and all of Feuilly’s attempts to do the dishes and shoos him off to the living room to choose a movie for them to watch. A thought strikes him as he’s queuing it up, and he grins to himself and waits for Enjolras to come and settle down next to him before he says it aloud.

 

“Do you just want me to date Bahorel so that I can ask him to introduce you to his friend?”

 

Enjolras splutters, but the way his skin flushes darker says everything Feuilly needs to know. Feuilly laughs with delight and utterly ignores Enjolras’s half-assed excuses, pressing play on the movie and continually laughing as he settles against Enjolras’s side. He’s an asshole sometimes, he knows that—but as Enjolras reminded him, it’s apparently charming.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**To: Bahorel**

[22:30] my friend wants you to introduce him to your friend

 

**From: Bahorel**

[22:34] fuk u i hav more thn 1 friend

 

**To: Bahorel**

[22:35] sorry lemme rephrase, he wants you to introduce him to the ‘really hot guy with the curly curly hair and the leggings, or whatever’

[22:35] his exact words not mine

 

**From: Bahorel**

[22:36] which of ur friends? curly? righteous blondie? glasses? the other blonde who was sitting next to the redhead? redhead?

 

**To: Bahorel**

[22:37] i’m gonna go with righteous blond, that sounds about right

[22:37] his name is enjolras

 

**From: Bahorel**

[23:09] tell him ill set it up !!!!!!!!

 

 

* * *

 

 

Feuilly has finally psyched himself up enough to ask Bahorel on a date, or something. With Enjolras’s reassuring speech, and Courfeyrac’s meddling that somehow ends up vastly improving his way of dress, and Combeferre’s reassurance that taking a risk isn’t as scary as it sounds, Feuilly walks into work the following Tuesday with a bundle of nerves unraveling in his stomach and a crazed smile on his face.

 

Beaumont looks at him once as he enters then rolls his eyes and glances back down. “You’re so chipper, why are you so chipper,” he mutters under his breath. Not even Beaumont’s unnecessary bad mood can drop the smile from Feuilly’s face, however. He happily ignores Beaumont and unlocks the door to let himself into the back.

 

“Any newbies?” he asks as he hangs his coat up on the rack.

 

“Not today,” Beaumont calls back. “A few adoptions, though. A police officer came in and adopted that German Shepherd, and the tabby that’s been here for a few weeks was taken home by a girl and her little brother. Pretty slow day, just like every Tuesday.”

 

Feuilly smiles to himself, pleased that his animals are finding good homes. When he’d first started, it was hard to watch his animals be adopted, to not be able to watch over them or protect them anymore, but now he’s reassured by watching them all be taken to loving homes. He’s humming to himself as he makes the rounds, checking on the other animals and making sure they’re all fed. He spends a little bit extra time with Rosa, who has started wagging her tail and getting excited when she sees him approaching. She’s let him pet her stomach now, and she’s almost completely different from the puppy she was when she was first brought in so many weeks ago. “Pretty lady,” he murmurs to her, sneaking her an extra treat or two. “You know you’re my favorite.”

 

He’s in the middle of feeding one of the newer animals, a Pitbull Terrier mix, when the back door swings open and hits the wall with a bang. Feuilly stands up, every instinct on edge as he hears Beaumont shout, “No, you’re not allowed back there!” as he pokes his head out of the kennel.

 

Bahorel is in the back, calling Feuilly’s name desperately, holding a bundle in his arms. Feuilly’s stomach fills with ice.

 

“Baz?” he says, as carefully as he can, and Bahorel whirls around. His face is red, he’s panting for breath, and his eyes are puffy as tears stream down his face. “Oh my god, Bahorel, _what’s wrong_?”

 

Feuilly’s rushing towards him before he can even really realize his feet are moving. In the bundled blanket in Bahorel’s arms is a kitten, just a baby, looking badly bruised and hurt. Bahorel’s trying to talk but the blood is rushing to Feuilly’s ears as he tries to assess the kitten’s injuries.

 

“Feuilly,” Bahorel cries, devastated and heartbroken, and Feuilly finally looks at him. “Feuilly, it’s _Luke_ , it’s Luke and I think something attacked him.”

 

Feuilly takes the kitten out of Bahorel’s arms and rushes back towards the medical bay. The kitten certainly does look like Luke, same white marking on his underbelly, but more pressing is his injuries. Feuilly works quickly, aware in the corner of his mind that Bahorel is behind him still crying and worrying, but trying his best to keep his focus on the kitten.

 

“It’s okay,” he says aloud, hoping it will subdue Bahorel, at least for a minute. Watching a man of Bahorel’s stature break down at the sight of an injured kitten is enough to make a choked cry build up in Feuilly’s throat. He shakes it away, at least for now. “He has bite marks on his shoulder, I think you’re right about something attacking him, they’re fairly deep but it’s nothing stitches and careful, careful monitoring won’t fix.”

 

“Are you _sure_?”

 

“Positive,” says Feuilly. He strokes the kitten’s head, tracking the way he presses his head more firmly against Feuilly’s hand. “He’s a fighter, he’s already trying to get me to keep paying attention to him. He’s going to be okay, Bahorel.”

 

“Is it Luke? Was I right?”

 

Feuilly looks back to the white mark on his belly, to the way the kitten mews when Feuilly pulls away, and he thinks about how he didn’t get to meet the family that adopted Luke to make sure he was going somewhere he’d be safe and loved. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, it’s Luke.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Feuilly makes sure that the person who adopted Luke the first time round gets put on their list of people not allowed to adopt anymore. Luke’s stitches heal gradually, with a lot of help and love from his sister.

 

Bahorel adopts them the second Feuilly tells him they’re both healthy.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Things do change after that.

 

He sees less of Bahorel, but texts him frequently enough that he considers it okay. He’s busy with his two new kittens, after all, and Feuilly’s upped his work load enough that he really doesn’t have any spare time anymore.

 

He’s so close now, to having enough money to start going to school and get _out_ of this hellish routine and finally be doing what he loves for good.

 

So, things change, and they don’t see each other as much. It sucks. Feuilly tries to convince himself that it doesn’t suck as much as it does. He works at the shelter and the cafe, and the library and the bar, and he focuses on saving every penny he can, and he tries not to think about how ready he was to tell Bahorel that they should give it a chance.

 

_We should go out. We’ve been tiptoeing around each other all this time and it’s stupid to keep acting like neither of us want this, you make me happy and I think I could make you happy. So let’s do it. Go out with me, let’s go out to dinner or see a movie or do everything, let’s go on one date or one hundred. No more hiding. Will you go on a date with me?_

 

He sighs, and deletes the entire text message.

 

At the bar, he serves a familiar face.

 

“Can I grab a beer?” the guy asks, and Feuilly slides him one before staring at him in surprise.

 

“You’re the guy,” he says, because he’s an idiot. The guy in question looks up at him with a raised eyebrow, startled and confused. “Sorry—uh, you’re Bahorel’s friend, aren’t you?”

 

“Oh my god, _you’re_ the guy,” he says, laughing in delight. “Yeah, hey, I’m Grantaire, but you’re Bahorel’s guy. Feuilly, from the animal shelter, and you made me that fucking amazing coffee, I’m still not over it, by the way. You also work here?”

 

“Bahorel’s guy?”

 

Grantaire snickers to himself. “Yeah, I probably shouldn’t have said it like that, but it’s not my fault, he talks about you constantly, all of us consider you his guy. He’d kill me if he knew I was telling you this, though.”

 

“ _His guy_?”

 

“You’re just as gone on him as he is on you, aren’t you? Christ, do I have to play matchmaker? He’s upset he didn’t ask you out, by the way, he keeps kicking himself about it. Especially since you disappeared, he’s really stressed about it.”

 

“Grantaire,” says Feuilly seriously, “I know we’ve only just met but I do love you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go scream in the back for ten minutes then hope to god my shift ends soon.”

 

Grantaire laughs in delight and shoos him away, content to spend his time alone with his beer. Feuilly has half the mind to text Enjolras and tell him that Bahorel’s friend is at his bar, but he’s seriously hung up on Bahorel wanting to date him, so he can’t exactly focus on anything else. He does go in the back, does spend a considerable amount of time shouting into his hands, and panicking, and thinking about texting Bahorel, before he finally forces himself to get pulled together and goes back up front. He’s only got anhour left of his shift, and as much as he wants to start running until he finds Bahorel, he can’t.

 

Grantaire is still sitting there, and he waves to Feuilly and orders another beer, and then Feuilly’s moving on to other customers and trying to keep himself distracted. Forty-five minutes, thirty, twenty—until he’s practically jumping out of his skin. His manager finally comes up to him and tells him to go home, so he does his cleaning as fast as he can, accepts the piece of paper that Grantaire presses into his hand, and practically sprints out of the bar.

 

He’s still in his work clothes, but he doesn’t care.

 

The paper tells him Bahorel’s apartment is a mile and a half away, so Feuilly sprints for the metro and catches the next train and goes nearly mad as it takes it’s time at each stop. No more hiding and no more holding back, he’s doing this all or nothing. He couldn’t convince himself he wasn’t miserable seeing Bahorel less, and after tonight he could never convince himself not to be miserable without seeing Bahorel every goddamn day.

 

He loves his stupid and sarcastic personality, his brightly colored pastel hair, his tattoos and his stories, his sharply dressed style and his stupid warm smile, he loves when Bahorel teases him and he loves how good Bahorel is with the animals. He’s halfway in love with this guy and it’s only going to get worse, he thinks, he’s only going to fall quicker and harder for Bahorel the more he learns about him. And he wants to learn everything—wants to learn what drives him wild, how he likes his coffee in the morning, why he dyed his hair blue. He’s overwhelmed by just how strongly he feels and there’s no running this time, no picking up an extra shift to have an excuse to leave, no storming off to his room, no hiding behind video games or books or anything else he’s used to ignore the fact that he feels. He feels so _deeply_ , so strongly, and by the time the metro finally reaches the stop that will lead him to Bahorel’s apartment, his stomach is coiled with nerves and his hands won’t stop shaking.

 

He all but runs as he follows street signs, double checking himself until finally, _finally_ he’s in front of a yellow door. It reads _3c_ just like the paper with Grantaire’s scribbly handwriting, and Feuilly’s still shaking as he reaches up to knock on the door.

 

The first thing he hears is swearing, followed by, “ _Just a second, I’m being attacked by kittens!_ ” and he laughs breathlessly to himself and then the door swings open and Bahorel is there looking like he stepped out of every last one of Feuilly’s dreams.

 

“Oh my god,” he says.

 

“Hi,” Feuilly says, winded and tired and _happy_.

 

“You’re at my apartment,” Bahorel whispers, dumbfounded.

 

“Your kittens are making a break for it,” Feuilly points out, bending down to scoop up Leia as she tries to dart outside. Bahorel flushes slightly but ushers him inside, closing the door before Luke can try to run, too.

 

“You’re at my _apartment_ ,” Bahorel repeats.

 

“Grantaire gave me the address.”

 

Bahorel blinks and splutters. “Grantaire? That fucker, did he say anything? Oh my god, don’t believe him, I don’t trust a word he ever says, he’s full of shit because he likes to mess with people, but he’s funny as hell and he’s a good sparring partner, so I keep him around and—”

 

“Bahorel,” Feuilly says softly.

 

“Whats up?”

 

“Shut up so I can kiss you, please,” Feuilly responds. He puts Leia back on the ground, and when he reaches up he grabs a fistful of Bahorel’s shirt so that he can tug him down for a kiss. Bahorel makes a surprised but pleased noise, and when he kisses Feuilly back it feels like everything in the world makes sense again. Feuilly keeps ahold of his shirt, it gives him excellent leverage to keep Bahorel where he is, and Bahorel takes Feuilly’s face in his hands so that he can deepen the kiss.

 

It’s perfect, and it’s hot, and Feuilly’s been dreaming of this for so long he’s not even sure it’s really happening, but then he feels something tug on his jeans hard enough that he pulls away, and finds that Leia has plastered herself to Feuilly’s leg in an attempt to scale him. He laughs a little bit breathlessly, still as Bahorel tries to kiss him again, and pushes at his chest so he can say, “Leia is determined to keep me from kissing you, the little bastard.”

 

Bahorel growls and leans down to capture Feuilly’s lips once more. It’s a quick kiss, though nothing about it is clean. When he pulls away and leaves Feuilly dazed, he bends down to detach Leia and carefully deposit her onto the scratching post that Luke has distracted himself with. “You say it like she’s done it before,” Bahorel mutters. Once he’s satisfied that Leia is safe and distracted, he turns back to Feuilly. His hands grip at Feuilly’s waist, pulling at his belt loops until Feuilly is pressed firmly against him and can wrap his arms around Bahorel’s shoulders. It’s quite a feat, since Bahorel is a giant who’s a lot taller than Feuilly.

 

“She _has_ ,” says Feuilly. “When I told you that Luke had been adopted, and you were sad so I was comforting you by lowkey seducing you, I was thinking about kissing you but then she was attached to my shirt and she was so _little_ I had to give her my attention.”

 

Bahorel eyes the cats warily. “I’d say I’d give her up so it doesn’t happen again, but I’m kind of obsessed with them, so you’ll just have to deal.”

 

Feuilly tugs on Bahorel’s hair until he leans down close enough to kiss him again. “We’ll deal,” he says, and he laughs even when Bahorel tries to shut him up.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_epilogue;_

 

“The downside to you having your own shelter is that I still want to adopt all of these animals,” Bahorel whines. He’s sitting very inconveniently on Feuilly’s desk, which is where Feuilly needs to be so he can finish officially opening his shelter. Feuilly presses a kiss to his boyfriend’s cheek then very determinedly tries to push him off the desk.

 

“We have too many animals, that’s why we’re rescuing the rest so that we don’t have to keep doing it,” Feuilly reminds him. Bahorel rolls his eyes.

 

“Luke and Leia and Sophie and Donna hardly count as _too many_ ,” Bahorel argues. “That’s a normal amount.”

 

“Four pets is not normal, Baz, all of our friends have one or maybe two.”

 

“Animals are the reason we _met_ , you asshole, we show our love by rescuing animals, it’s romantic as shit,” Bahorel argues. He slides off the desk and sits very pointedly in a chair right next to Feuilly. “Hey, in all honestly though, I’m fucking proud of you. You finally got here, man, success is sexy on you.”

 

Feuilly blushes, but hides it by rolling his eyes fondly. “You old sap.”

 

“Hey, I’m engaged to a _doctor_ , I’ll be sappy as fuck if I feel like it.”

 

It’s enough to make Feuilly stop and look up from his work. Bahorel smiles at him, soft as can be. Even after all these years, his smile still warms Feuilly deep to his bones. He’s so happy here, in this life, with Bahorel and with their pets, and with his new shelter and his shiny new veterinary degree, and a life he built but never expected to have. Bahorel’s right, they deserve to be sappy.

 

He blows his fiancé a kiss. “I love you,” he says honestly.

 

“That’s gay, but I love you, too, Dr. Feuilly,” Bahorel replies. Feuilly throws a crumpled up Post-It note at him and laughs and laughs when Bahorel retaliates by lunging and closing the distance between them. When he kisses Bahorel, for the millionth or billionth time, he smiles as happily as he did the first time.

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, this probably makes no sense, but I cried at least three different times while writing it. So.
> 
>  
> 
> you can find me on [tumblr](https://feuillyys.tumblr.com) crying abt les mis or on [twitter](https://twitter.com/tannscotts) posting about various things.
> 
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> 
> comment, kudos, bookmark below!


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